Never Forget: Extended Edition
by paradoxicalNightmares
Summary: SPECIAL EXTENDED EDITION! A year after Gokudera was rescued by Yamamoto, she's still in the hospital, and suffering from the memories that are now surfacing from her time in captivity. The only problem is, Yamamoto hasn't visited her since he first dropped her off at the Italian hospital. Will she ever completely forgive him? YamamotoxFem!Gokudera. Rated T for graphic descriptions.


**A.N.: It's been forever since I've updated - I apologize profusely to everyone who has been waiting to hear something new from me! In my time off, I did a lot of research towards my unfinished works, which I will be trying to complete in a timely manner, now that I'm back. This here is the special Extended Edition of Never Forget - more detail was put into what Haya-chan saw and felt, and the tortures were elaborated more (because I studied a lot of tortures and stuff like that). Anyways, please review to tell me if I should continue this special edition or not so I know if I'm wasting my time or not; I would really appreciate your feedback. Creativity permitting, I hope to have another chapter of something unfinished up by the end of next week. My plan is to update once a week, but I don't know how well that will work out. Again, I apologize for keeping everyone waiting for so long, and I hope you enjoy reading!**

**~theultimatenerdgurl**

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><p>I remember.<br>It's been five months.  
>I'm still in the hospital.<br>But I remember.  
>I remember the pain, I remember the fear, I remember the resistance, <strong>I remember.<strong>  
>And I'll never forget.<br>Because things like that don't just happen.  
>And when they do, they stay with you.<br>_Forever._

* * *

><p>Wind whips around my too-thin frame, tussling my now short hair and hideous hospital gown. I have a thick, coarse blanket around my shoulders. I'm not cold – it's quite mild this time of year in Italy – but I don't like showing off the still healing marks visible on practically every inch of my body. At least my hair is growing back rather quickly, and not in clumps. I shift slightly in my wheelchair, my abused body screaming in protest, and push myself closer to the metal railing wrapping around the sixth floor balcony I currently occupy. My left arm aches more than usual, no doubt from me ripping out my IV. A thin trail of blood trickles down from my elbow to my fingertips, but it is nothing compared to what I have previously experienced. I wait patiently for my nurses to find me – I break out at least once a week to get some fresh air. Any minute now, they'll burst through the doors, drag me back into that stuffy room, hook me back up to that damn machine, and tie me to the bed to restrain me. Of course, despite my severely weakened condition, it never works for long. I always manage to get away, even if it's for a brief amount of time.<p>

I look out over the city through the bars and sigh heavily. It's been two weeks since my last visitor, and I ended up throwing books at him to try to get him to leave me alone. In the act of chucking Dante's _The Divine Comedy_ and George Martin's _A Game of Thrones_, I had ripped several stitches, which pissed my surgeon off pretty badly and left me on lockdown for two weeks. I need to get out of here, though. Since no one has visited, things must be tense for the famiglia – I need to get back to Japan. Sure, I was raised in Italy, and it is home to me, but Japan is where my famiglia is, and where I belong. Granted, I did miss Italy, and I still do, because you can't see much from a hospital window, but I don't belong here anymore. I'm only sixteen years old, and I've had six major hospital visits in the past two years, this marking my seventh trip. As much as I hate the damned facilities, I can't seem to stay out of them for very long.

I roll closer to the railing and rest my forehead against the cool metal, my still slightly irritated skin calming at the soothing chill. For almost a year now, I've been holed up here, slowly healing. I woke up from my coma seven months ago, and just started allowing myself to remember what actually happened to me five months ago. Eleven and a half months, five of which were spent comatose, and everyone visited, except for Jyuudaime, and him. I can understand why Jyuudaime would be unable to visit, but I don't understand why he hasn't shown up, not even once. It's not that I miss him or anything – it's just strange. I can't blame him, though. He did save my life, bringing me here, but he's probably haunted by the image of what I used to look like – if of course, he ever thinks of me. I think of him every day, and remember how he found me, broken and bleeding, on the brink of death –

I pull away from the railing with a sharp inhalation, clenching my fists and using the flare of pain to distract myself from the encroaching flood of horrifying memories. I don't want to remember, I don't want to go back to that place; I want to stay here, where I'm safe. Taking deep breaths, I slowly relax my tensed muscles as the flood recedes, and stifle a groan as my mutilated body cries in protest to the minor exertion. Shouts from behind draw me rudely from my calming exercises as several nurses discover my quite open "hiding spot." I throw a surprised glance over my shoulder, impressed by their efficiency and diligence. It used to take them longer to find me. I guess since management changed recently, finding escaped patients like me has become a priority.

My head nurse opens the balcony doors as I back away from the railing, my face emotionless. I wait for a reprimand, but surprisingly, one doesn't come. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest and just stares, like a mother would at an unruly child. I squirm a little, uncomfortable under her intense gaze. It feels like years pass before she finally speaks. "You're being transferred."

My expressionless face morphs into one of confusion. Did I hear her correctly? "Transferred? Where to?" My voice, gruff from my many years as a smoker, is thin and frail sounding to my ears. I wince slightly at that, wishing I sounded stronger.

She doesn't seem to register the frailty – in fact, she smiles at my question. "Japan. We've been in almost constant contact with Sawada-san since you arrived. He's mad all the arrangements for you to go back home as soon as you were stable enough. I'll be traveling with you, along with a few others in my team who have cared for you since the beginning."

My expression goes from confusion to utter astonishment, and my jaw drops. Jyuudaime wants me back in Japan? I had thought he was keeping me here, out of the line of fire, for safety reasons. The head nurse laughs softly at my reaction and slowly pushes me back inside, to the stuffy room. She helps me pack my few belongings for the flight, and then secures me to a gurney with the assistance of another nurse. For once, I don't try to fight back and be the unruly patient I usually am. I have only one thought as I am pushed down the hallway to the waiting private jet. _I'm going home._

* * *

><p>When your innards are kept inside you by some very flimsy thread, air turbulence is not a good thing to experience. Despite the excruciating pain, I stubbornly refuse to take any of my pain medications, which is probably very stupid of me. But I am Jyuudaime's right hand – I don't need painkillers.<p>

It's still a blessing when I pass out.

* * *

><p><em>I can still feel the cold, hard steel against the remains of my back, which has been ripped to shreds, muscle and skin hanging off my thin frame in ribbons. Rough leather bindings chafe against muscle and bone on my wrists and ankles, pooling more blood onto the silver surface, adding to my constant agony. A threadbare cloth, stained with my blood, is stuffed between my teeth and against my tongue, cutting off my desperate breaths and muffling my cries. The lack of oxygen brings on a pounding headache, pushing me closer towards the brink of unconsciousness, and increasing the pain tenfold. At my feet stands my captor, his image blurred by unwanted tears – a tall man, whose face is obscured by shadow. "Your friends are here to rescue you, my pet," he muses, his thick, calloused fingers stroking my right leg, probing the deep incisions he left there during one of our countless sessions. I resist the strong urge to attempt to kick him – I've tried before and paid, dearly. It's times like these that I regret my feisty attitude. Here, it's nearly killed me, many times over. "Let's leave them a little surprise, shall we?" My eyes widen in horror as he steps closer, his face still hidden like it's obscured by some sort of mask. All this time, I've never seen his face, and I've lost count of how many days I've been stuck here. I think it's only been two weeks, but I can't see the sun from my prison, and he never bothers to give me information. He only takes what I offer, and I don't offer much, so he takes my body as punishment. He raises a fist, and I see the faintest glimmer of a knife blade before he punches down, stabbing me repeatedly in the abdomen. <em>He means to kill me,_ I think, as I scream into the frayed cloth, choking on the threads and my own blood. For an eternity, I scream, he stabs, and the pool of blood underneath me grows, spilling off the side of my silver throne. I don't remember what happens next, because I slip out of consciousness, out of the world of the living, and begin my journey into the realm of the dead._

I jerk upright in my bed, screaming, startling my nurses, who scream as well before coming to their senses and gently forcing me back down. "Sedative!" I scream and fight more when I hear that – I don't want to go back there, I don't want to remember! I continue to struggle, tears leaking out of my eyes, begging incoherently. Blood colors the front of my gown, soaking through the thin material where I popper some stitches. My head nurse hold up a hand to stop whoever was about to administer the sedative and places her cool hand on my burning forehead. "Relax, Haya-chan," she murmurs, "it was just a bad dream. No one is going to hurt you, okay?" She speaks in Japanese, knowing the language will calm me down more than Italian would.

I stop fighting her and start fighting myself – steadying my breaths and stopping my tears. _She doesn't know, she couldn't possibly understand what I've been through…_ I nod shakily, and she waves away the other nurses, leaving us alone. She sits in the seat next to my bed and squeezes one of my hands ever so gently. "We'll be in Japan soon," she says, continuing to speak Japanese, and I know she's trying to keep me from thinking about my dream – well, memory, actually, but they feel the same.

I wipe my cheeks with my free hand, and the blanket falls away, revealing the pink, ugly scars. Knowing how self-conscious I am about them, she fixes the blanket for me, covering them. "Thank you," I whisper, offering her a shaky smile. Even though I've been a difficult patient (and I always will be), she's always been kind to me, and looked after me, like – _Mom._ My throat clenches and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back more tears. Unconsciously, I grip her hand tighter. I haven't thought about my long dead mother in years, so why am I suddenly thinking of her now? I feel her squeeze my hand back and take a moment to compose myself before re-opening my eyes.

"Are you in pain?" She looks genuinely concerned for me, like he used to. I shake my head and stare at the space above hers, still struggling with my emotions.

"I-I just need a moment." I swallow, and she stands, leaving me alone with my own thoughts after checking my IV. It's been five, almost six months since I finally let myself look back on my captivity, and almost every time I fall asleep, I remember. Even now, after I've pretty much come to terms with it, I still can't bear remembering. I turn my head to look out the window, watching the clouds float by, and drift off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>When I wake, I'm in my new (<em>surprisingly<em> stuffy) hospital room, my famiglia patiently waiting for me to regain consciousness. He's even there, which sparks my temper. For a whole year, I heard nothing, despite his promise to always be there when I woke up. Does he expect me to forgive him for that? Yea-no. Not happening. I refuse to acknowledge his presence as the others gather around to welcome me home – even Hibari-san, surprisingly. I actually smile, warmed by their affection, and relieved to be back with my famiglia. And even though I try to look away from him, my eyes are drawn to where he stands in the corner, watching silently.

Eventually, everyone leaves, except for him. Before I was captured and tortured, we kind of had a relationship going, but it hadn't really gone anywhere. Then I was taken, and it was like he fell off the face of the Earth. He still stands in the corner, and I stare at him in what I hope is a defiant manner. I shift my weight a little and wince at the slight tug on my fresh stitches and sore muscles. He uses that as an excuse to approach. "How are you, Haya-chan?"

My glare intensifies (I hope), and my face burns with anger. "You didn't visit for a whole year. You left me alone, in Italy, _for a whole fucking year!_ What the fuck, Yamamoto?!" I'm more pissed off than I originally thought, because I feel a small wave of satisfaction when he flinches, but it soon disappears amidst the wash of guilt.

He doesn't meet my eyes. "I-." He pauses and scratches the back of his neck, like he always does when he's nervous. "Tsuna didn't let me visit, even though he knew you were going to be mad at me for it because he knew you would be madder if I left him unprotected to take care of you."

Shame floods me then, and I regret yelling at him. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. _Jyuudaime…_ "I-I didn't know," I mumble pathetically, looking down.

He smiles his infuriating, easy-going smile, and finally sits in the chair next to my bed. "I don't blame you for being mad, Haya-chan. I was mad at first, too, but with everything that has happened in the past year, I respect Tsuna for his decision in keeping me here. It's been difficult, without you." He reaches out for my hand, hesitating for a moment before taking it. "I really missed you," he says, blushing a little.

Maybe, just maybe, our relationship is still solid and we can move on, together. I smile back at him, blushing slightly as well. "I missed you, too, yakyu baka."


End file.
